Sophie & Maureen

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Summer now… some days there was a lustrous sun and others the world was steeped in pea soup fog. It might have been a ponderous time of year for Sophie if it hadn’t been for Martin. She was glad that he needed her as much as she needed him.

The fourth floor of the big house was her palace. Inside it, she was its queen. A doting Martin loved her there at all hours of the day. When Sophie thought to stop by the deli and pay her respects, Maureen reminded her to be careful. Sophie summarily scoffed at her worries, but it didn’t stop Maureen from being concerned. The wiser woman suspected there was some part of her friend that was just skating through this relationship ignoring the hurt that hadn’t begun to heal. Still, she was one to advise, not interfere.

The s****l side of Sophie’s relationship with Martin didn’t begin in the attic, but in the middle of another department store photo shoot. She was wearing pastel sweater sets, and plain wool skirts for a midwinter catalog, posing with three other models, dressed in similar clothes. That afternoon, every time Martin’s eyes met hers, he was remembering the extraordinary week before.

For three days in the attic room, she posed without clothes, lying on a chaise like a freshly cut flower. He remembered the line of her white shoulder, the hollow, and the rising collarbone, the swell of her breast that then drooped lazily against its twin—pressing against the satin beneath her. Sophie’s hip rose like an ocean swell, then curved downward as it became a thigh, disappearing into her bent knees, becoming her calves, her tiny ankles, and the daintily pointed feet stretching out like the line of a distant and endless horizon. She drifted on the green satin as though she were drifting on a calm sea. Her tan body—a fair and flawless tan—was graced by a single beauty mark just below her hipbone above her tangle of pale curls. Martin watched carefully, waiting for her to adjust the pose, squirm for a second, parting her thighs enough so he could peek at the pinkish wet between them. He saw only the very tip of inner labia extending beyond the two plump mounds of cleanly shaved velvet. He had seen enough of her naked to know that Sophie was hairless from just behind the tuft of pubic hair in front to somewhere in the—as yet unseen—depths near her anus.

While Martin’s eyes dined on this feast of flesh, her smile was as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s, her lips pressed delicately together. Though there’d been a draft in the attic, she was too hot inside herself to be chilled. A bead of sweat trickled from her neck in a languid rivulet as though unsure what path to take.

When Sophie’s eyes caught Martin’s in the downstairs studio, she remembered how he moved so adroitly, how his sandy blonde hair was captured by the mellow glow of the afternoon sun. He was studious, controlling, always having something in mind that he wanted her to understand as he shifted her pose from one to the next. As demanding as he was, he was never impatient, and often smiled, just as the camera clicked off another image of her radiance. She often believed she saw his pants pulse at the crotch, his c**k all in a rage in the middle of work.

Neither model nor photographer could forget the passionate roar these sessions fueled each day. They worked until she was tired—or more appropriately her body lust was so potent that she could no longer sit still. The third day, she hopped to her feet without being excused and flew to her robe. “Time to go,” she declared.

“Aw, so soon?” he was both stunned and disappointed.

“I just remembered an appointment…”

He knew it was a lie—a very bad lie—but a harmless one.

That night, they both rethought the platonic arrangement that prevented their having s*x. The biggest question they faced was why? What was keeping them from making love? What kind of insidious reasoning was there to hold back from an act of love that was obviously mutually desired?

Two days later at the photo shoot, after several clothing changes, the day was about to wrap. The other models were in the dressing rooms and Sophie was alone with Martin.

Oddly, the same sort of potent attraction that seemed to loom so ominously over them in the attic was present now—there without any real instigation. He was at her side, his hand, quite suddenly, stroking her cheek.

“I’m not sure this is good for me anymore,” he said.

She thought he was shattering her world with that comment. “Why’s that?”

“I want you in the attic now, right now. I want you without a stitch, and not so I can take another picture of you,” he said as though he loathed his occupation. “I want you naked next to me.” He wasn’t sure what made him say these things, but they had to be said or he’d explode.

She stood looking at him in awe—afraid and in awe.

“Then I’ll be there for you, Martin,” she finally replied. She had his two cheeks held gently between her two palms. She might have kissed him but they were interrupted by the other models leaving the studio. “I’ll wait for you there,” she mouthed as she backed away and quickly disappeared into the back of the house, on her way to the attic staircase.

The late day shadows bathed her body with patterns of small windowpanes—beveled glass turning light into rainbows on her skin. She was more a jewel than he remembered her. Martin made up the space between them quickly, finding his lover giving up her physical treasures like a flower gives up its perfume to the air. She lay back languidly on the green satin chaise, her pale tan skin becoming his. Her hipbones ground above the cushion seeking his mouth, so that was where he planted his face first. Though he would have preferred her lips above, he was content with the lower, baser ones—ones that smelled of something sweet and tangy—he thought of some delicious fruit. Plums, she wore the scent of fresh summer plums as though he could bite into the flesh and taste the juice running over his mouth. Though maybe this was just his imagination making her so delectable.

Her cunt was a purply-pink, a tangy sweet froth at the very center.

She groaned, “ahhhhh, yesyesyes….” purring carnally in a breathy voice, rubbing her ass against the satin, lifting her breasts toward the empty air.

Drinking fully from her cunt, he believed she was about to climax on his tongue alone. Feeling the need to make her wait, he left the pulsing brew between her legs, kissing the top of her pubic mound while his nose nestled in her fragrant curls. Slowly climbing up her body to her navel, he licked the salty skin, then moved swiftly to her breasts. His c**k responded, jumping to each new advance, knowing he could hardly wait to spread her thighs and plunge himself into the depths of her raw insides the way a conquering hero plunders the spoils of war. Her yielding nature stirred a part of his soul that was most often dormant. Few women were this easily obtained.

Sophie’s arms were stretched above her head, hands crossed at the wrists as though they were bound. As his prick pressed deeply into her, he held her hands in his, refusing to let go until their climax-bound bodies peaked, flesh rippling, jarring spasms jerking them wildly together in a sensuous dance.

Sophie lay back quietly as her breathing returned to normal, and Martin clutched her side protectively. Her arms were limply above her head remaining captive to whatever mental bonds had placed them there.

He was in awe.

“Martin?” she brought one hand down to his head and played with his mussed brown hair. “I’m not a goddess, darling.”

That was exactly what he was thinking. “You could have fooled me,” he said, pulling away enough to look at her. The passionate adoring look in his eyes remained.

“You might love something that I am not,” she suggested.

His eyebrows arched worriedly. “Why do you say that?”

She knew what she felt. The adoration was appreciated, but in part, unreal. He didn’t understand everything she was, and she was afraid that he’d hate her if he knew the entire truth, whatever that was. She wasn’t sure herself.

“I’ve fooled men before.”

“Did you fool Danny?” he asked.

Thinking about her dead lover was never a pleasant activity. And she resented Martin for sending her mind down that broken road. Yet, right now, the memory was apt. “No, Danny knew me, at least he was starting to know me.”

“And you say, I don’t?”

“Maybe in time,” she said wistfully.

She disentangled herself from his arms and pulled off the chaise. Standing by the window her body seemed to glow. With her back to him, he watched the seductive movement of her ass, two pillows of white dimpled cheeks and the shadowy cleft between them held his attention. The slight jiggle when she shifted from one foot to another begged his itchy fingers to grasp those cheeks tightly in his fists. He imagined her head falling back on his shoulder, a tender wince of pain. No woman had so intrigued him.

“I think you want to be dominated,” he finally spit out what was foremost in his mind.

She turned his way, her lips curling into a youthful snicker, while her eyes, now golden, were lit with an arcane witchery.

“Wouldn’t that be interesting?” she quipped. She darted for her pink sundress, and tossing it over her head, covered the territory of flesh his hands had just enjoyed.

She was out of the studio minutes later. Both she and Martin were confused by the mystery between them.

After s*x with Martin Scoffield, Sophie dropped by the deli, ordering a turkey sub and potato salad—she needed something hearty to appease her ravenous hunger.

“Must have been good,” Maureen said seeing the satisfied expression on her face.

“Humm, it was great,” she mumbled while taking another bite of her sandwich. On any other occasion, she might have refused to admit that she’d had s*x. But it was pretty pointless being coy. She could never hide the truth from Maureen anyway.

“Are you in love with him?” the next question seemed to be a reasonable one.

“No, I’m not.” She popped a green grape into her mouth.

Talking over the consumption of food, Sophie always relaxed and said a whole lot more about things that mattered. Maureen found it a useful tool to get her friend to open up. Just shove some food before her eyes and she was an open book.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not just s*x—and that was terrific. It was a whole lot more than that. I felt devoured—devoured by myself. But I think Martin’s a male clone of me. It’s not going to last.”

“Well, now, that makes sense,” Maureen seemed to understand. She’d intuitively decided that a long time ago.

“I mean he was beautiful, but…” she struggled for the right word … “I need something more, more … gritty… and dark and devious and intense.” She was about to giggle embarrassed by her own thoughts. “I could just melt into Martin and lose myself. But I could never find myself in him.”

Maureen nodded. Danny would have been perfect if he hadn’t died. “So, you’ll keep screwing him?”

“Maybe,” she answered, looking totally uncertain.

Maureen knew what would happen without asking. Sophie would decide on the spot, whatever moved her at the time. If she wasn’t moved—meaning hot inside her crotch, her thighs pulsing like drums—she’d feel bad for the photographer, but Sophie wouldn’t budge. She never made love without the passion.